


Teaching Ian

by Englishtutor



Series: A Watson When You Need One [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Volcanoes, pre-school, science experiments with a three-year-old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:25:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6844816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The events in this chapter are taken from my own real life, and quotes from my not-quite-three-year-old grandson are in italics.  Yes, he is a genius.  He is also handsome, polite, and cuddly as a teddy bear; you can take my word for it!</p></blockquote>





	1. Ian Goes to Pre-school

“Dr. Watson, may I have a word?”

Mary looked at Ms. Pilsner’s serious face and sighed inwardly, braced for the worst. Glancing towards Ian, who was happily engrossed in playing pirates with his new friends on the playground under the watchful eye of a monitor, she nodded curtly and stepped into the preschool teacher’s classroom. The short, plump, pleasant-faced Ms. Pilsner sat at her desk and gestured Mary to a seat. Stoically prepared for anything, Mary sat warily on the edge of her chair, resigned.

Researching and applying to preschools for her son had been a challenge—few schools would even consider taking the risk of enrolling him, given the multitude of precautions against kidnapping the Watsons were forced to require. Of the few that were willing to work with them, this was the third they had tried. 

Preschool number one had called in a panic the first day, as Ian has secreted Sherlock’s lighter and was attempting to demonstrate the science of combustion to his classmates. Fortunately, he had not been able to work out how to make it light. (“Sherlock! How could you be so careless as to let a three-year-old get hold of your lighter?” “I didn’t ‘let’ him—he must have picked my pocket.” “Should I call you Fagin from now on? How could teaching your three-year-old nephew to pick pockets possibly be a good idea?” “He has a natural aptitude. . . Mary, do stop hitting me with that newspaper!”)

Preschool number two had gone well for a few weeks, since Ian had been sternly admonished against pick-pocketing. But soon the complaints from parents began to overwhelm the school administrator and the Watsons were asked to withdraw their precocious son. It seemed Ian had been regaling his classmates with wild and terrifying tales of monsters and dragons and Chinese acrobats and, of all things, taxicab drivers. The other children enjoyed the stories so much, they took them home and alarmed their parents with them. (“How was I to foresee that Ian’s future playmates would have such a lot of shuddering cowards for parents?” “Well, yes, you do have a point, I suppose. . . .”)

They had had high hopes for preschool number three, which specialized in nature study—just up Ian’s street—but Mary could see by Ms. Pilsner’s nervous expression that the first day had not gone well.

“It’s about the rodent skulls, isn’t it?” she asked preemptively, hoping to take control of the situation from the outset. “I apologize for that, Ms. Pilsner, I really do. John and I had no idea that Ian had taken them from his uncle’s flat for show and tell. (“Sherlock! What do you mean, he took your skulls to school? How could a three-year-old sneak your entire collection past you without your knowing?” “Don’t be absurd! Do you think I’d trust a toddler to pack up my skulls safely? I packed them for him myself, in his little backpack, each wrapped in its own cloth.” “Oh, good lord . . . . “)

But Ms. Pilsner surprised her. “Oh, no, Dr. Watson, I didn’t mind the skulls. The children were delighted, and it was a good learning experience for them,” she assured the young mother sincerely. “You know we specialize in nature study in our little school. I was quite impressed that he knew the names of each one. In fact, when we toured our little pet area, I was amazed to hear him call many of the animals by their Latin names. He’s a very clever little boy.”

Mary diplomatically tried to disguise her pride. “Oh, I think he’s quite average, really,” she demurred modestly. “Many children are raised bilingual, and it’s advantageous in today’s world to know several languages. I spoke fluent Hindi when I was his age; his father speaks Farsi quite well. And as for his uncle—I’ve lost count of how many languages he speaks . . . .”

“Well, yes, Mrs. Watson, but most bilingual children speak two living languages. It’s rare to meet a toddler who is learning a dead language like Latin,” Ms. Pilsner returned, looking rather amused. “Of course, I know both you and your husband are in the medical field, which explains a great deal. For example, he wanted to know when we could begin dissecting things.”

Mary fought hard to stifle a laugh. “Um, yes, his Aunt Molly is a pathologist, which he finds quite fascinating,” she explained.

Ms. Pilsner was far from finished. “Also, when we were going about the circle, naming things that begin with the sounds of the alphabet, Ian said ‘F is for Iron’. I didn’t understand what he was doing until it was his turn again, and he said ‘K is for Potassium’.” She chuckled pleasantly.

“Oh, dear, yes, he does get his alphabet and his periodic table a bit mixed sometimes,” Mary hastened to assure the teacher. “He forgets the ‘e’ bit in ‘Fe’. But he’s only three; he’ll get it sorted in time.”

“I’m sure he will,” Ms. Pilsner said comfortingly. “But, Dr. Watson, you must understand that most three-year-olds aren’t learning the periodic table at all. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing to teach a child,” she held up a placating hand to forestall Mary’s protest. “He’s a bright, curious boy with a good memory and great aptitude for science. He obviously has benefited greatly from your family’s attentiveness. He’s truly a pleasure to teach. ”

Mary was losing patience. “Then what is the problem, Ms. Pilsner?” she demanded.

Ms. Pilsner could not meet Mary’s eye. She looked down at her hands on the desk and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid our school just isn’t able to challenge a child of Ian’s abilities and background,” she confessed at last. “I have 20 students, Dr. Watson, and 19 of them are still learning their shapes and colours. Most of what I’m teaching, Ian already knows. And of course, without proper intellectual stimulation, he attempts to keep himself occupied on his own. I’m sorry, but I just haven’t the resources to teach both Ian and the rest of the class on their own levels.”

Mary stared at the teacher for a long moment, processing this information. “So you’re saying that Ian finds your class boring,” she stated flatly.

Ms. Pilsner looked immensely relieved. “Yes, I’m afraid so, Dr. Watson,” she admitted frankly. “I believe he’d be happier somewhere else.”

This time, Mary did not try to hide her sigh.

000

“Make another ‘splosion, Uncle Sh’ock!” Ian demanded excitedly. He was standing on a chair at the kitchen table beside his uncle, surrounded by science equipment and a large, deep basin. “Do it again! Do it again!” He bounced up and down, placing all his weight on his hands splayed out on the table each time his feet left the seat of the chair.

Sherlock regarded this small Watson with amusement. “When you’ve finished jumping about, I’ll consider it,” he replied dryly. “And technically, it isn’t an explosion but a chemical reaction resulting in the expansion of gases which cause the constraining container to burst.”

It took all of Ian’s self-control to stop himself bouncing; his little legs trembled with the effort of being still. “I stopped. I stopped! Make another ‘spansion of gas, Uncle Sh’ock!”

Mary snorted and turned to her chuckling husband. They were sitting at the desk, watching the spectacle from a respectable distance—uncle and nephew were having some one-on-one time this evening and parents were not to interrupt.

“We could keep trying out preschools, but I really think we’ll continue to run into the same problem, Captain,” she remarked, continuing their conversation. She had just recounted the dialogue with Ms. Pilsner as they enjoyed the sight of their two boys playing at chemist across the flat. “I really don’t believe that Ian is a genius or anything like that, but he’s had advantages other children don’t—access to real science equipment and family members who are eager share their own passions with him.”

“And adults who talk to him like a real person instead of half-wit,” John remarked in a sarcastic tone. It was one of his pet-peeves: people who spoke to children as if they were incapable of thought, instead of little, inexperienced people who were hard-wired to absorb language and information. “Why should a trained educator be surprised that a child can learn the words ‘canis’ or ‘lepus’ as easily as ‘dog’ and ‘rabbit’?” he grumbled.

“There, there,” Mary soothed, patting his arm gently. “Stop bristling. I think we should consider educating him at home. But I just don’t know what to do about his social life. He needs other children to play with. You should have seen how much fun he was having on the playground, being pirates with other little boys.”

There was a loud pop, accompanied by an excited squeal from Ian, who was again jumping unrestrainedly on his chair. “Again! Again!” he shouted. “Do it again, Uncle Sh’ock!”

“I don’t know. He has one great toddler to play with already—one who knows how to blow stuff up,” John observed wryly, and Mary giggled.

“Hmm. I think you should do it this time,” Sherlock was replying calmly. “You’ve been a passive audience long enough. Well—I say passive,” he added, regarding the enthusiastic little Watson at his side.

“Yay! Yay! I can do it!” Ian crowed, over the moon with happiness. 

“Right, then, what do you do first?” Sherlock asked. 

“The white stuff!” Ian pointed to the box of bicarbonate of soda.

“What is the ‘white stuff’ called?” Sherlock insisted, holding the box out of reach.

Ian screwed up his face in thought. “Car bate a’ soda?” he ventured hesitantly.

Sherlock visibly suppressed a smile. “Close enough,” he nodded, and handed over the box. “What do you do with it?”

Ian poured some of the ‘white stuff’ onto a paper towel, and Sherlock helped his clumsy little fingers to fold it over to make a secure packet. “Now what?” 

“Water,” Ian said, picking up a measuring cup. “This much.”

“Try again,” Sherlock said, and the Doctors Watson in the sitting room marveled, not for the first time, at the detective’s patient tone. Their friend was never so long-suffering with any other human being, but with Ian he made every exception.

“Very good!” Sherlock praised Ian as he correctly chose the ¼ cup measure. He filled the measuring cup with water and held a grip-seal bag while the child poured the liquid in. “And next?”

“Yellow stuff,” Ian pointed at a bottle, bouncing a bit with impatience. “That stuff.”

“Which is called?” his uncle prompted gently. 

More painful thought. “Vin-a-gar,” Ian said carefully.

Again, the boy was rewarded with nod. “How much?”

Ian selected the ½ cup measure triumphantly. “This one!” he cried.

“Correct.” Sherlock poured the vinegar into the cup and held the bag again as Ian emptied it. “And now?”

The excited child grabbed up the packet of bicarbonate of soda and dropped it into the grip-seal bag, bouncing with joy. Sherlock quickly sealed the bag, shook it up, and placed it in the basin. 

“He’ll never get a better education than this at any preschool in London,” John observed, chuckling at his son’s enthusiasm. Moments later there was another loud pop as the bag burst and the contents fizzed out in an exciting, foaming display.

“Again! Again!” Ian screeched happily, his hands braced on the table so that his jumping motion looked like a pony bucking.

“I don’t know, Captain. Playing with children his own age is important,” Mary said thoughtfully.

“I could have told you that preschool would be a waste of time. Mycroft and I had no contact with other children until we were considerably older than Ian,” Sherlock informed them dryly without looking up from the basin. “We turned out just fine.”

Mary and John gave each other a long, significant look.

“We’ll start researching play groups tomorrow,” they both said simultaneously, and chuckled again.

"Do more science, Sh'ock!" Ian commanded imperiously. And his playmate obligingly complied.


	2. For the Love of Lava

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter are taken from my own real life, and quotes from my not-quite-three-year-old grandson are in italics. Yes, he is a genius. He is also handsome, polite, and cuddly as a teddy bear; you can take my word for it!

It had been months since Sherlock had visited the Watson’s flat. Worse, it had been weeks since he had last seen his little nephew. The self-proclaimed sociopath had not known before that it was possible to become addicted to the presence of a human being, but he was now aware that he had been going through “Ian withdrawal” for the past several days and needed to see him desperately. Fortunately, the gruelling caseload he and John had been working on for the past several weeks had let up and the partners finally had a whole weekend off. Sherlock fairly sprinted up the stairs to the Watson home in anticipation.

“Hullo, Sweetheart,” Mary greeted him warmly with a kiss on the cheek. “You’ve been such a stranger lately! It’s lovely to see you!”

“It’s all your own fault, you know,” he reminded her grimly. “If you had gone back to work as originally planned, John and I would not have to take every abysmal case offered to us—we could choose only the more interesting ones, and have more time for leisure.”

Mary sighed. “You know full well why I’ve not gone back to work.” He did know. The plan had been for Mary to return to work when Ian was settled in preschool. But preschool had proven a dismal failure. Ian was simply too advanced and too precocious to be educated with other, normal children his age, it seemed. And so John and Mary had decided it would be most prudent to educate their young genius at home.

“Actually, John and I have been talking about how unfair the situation has become,” Mary continued cheerfully. “We’ve decided that we should go round-robin on the work details.”

“Round—what?” Sherlock was all at sea.

“It isn’t right that you and John should have to work so hard on cases, whilst I get all the joy of teaching Ian at home. Or, I could word it another way: It isn’t right that you and John should have all the joy of solving crimes whilst I have to do all the hard work of teaching Ian at home.” Mary grinned disingenuously, and Sherlock, as was often the case when speaking with Mary, could not judge whether she was in earnest or only teasing.

“Uncle Sh’ock!” a small voice shrieked in excitement! “Uncle Sh’ock! You here! You here!”

Sherlock braced himself for the onslaught, and all thirty pounds of sturdy three-year-old slammed into his legs at approximately fifty-miles-per-hour. Ian threw his arms around his uncle’s knees in a paroxysm of extravagant affection. “Nicely observed, Ian,” he replied dryly, patting the boy’s blond head with a fond touch that belied his tone.

“We doin’ science today, Sh’ock,” Ian informed him happily, looking up, up, up into his uncle’s face. 

“But that’s what we always do together, Ian. Perhaps we should ‘do maths’ or ‘do Latin’ today,” Sherlock suggested drolly. “Or perhaps something less academic. We could ‘do ballroom dancing’ or ‘do calligraphy’, or . . . .”

“We makin’ a full-camo!” Interrupting the rather sarcastic litany, Ian grabbed his uncle’s hand and dragged him into the kitchen. John was there already, assembling what was needed for volcano-making. 

“Hey, Sherlock. Ready to ‘do science’?” the doctor asked cheerfully.

“I found the 30% hydrogen peroxide. It should make a very satisfactory eruption,” Sherlock replied with a mischievous grin.

Mary, having trailed behind them, appeared in the kitchen doorway. “I’m off, then. Can I depend on you boys to behave yourselves?” she asked, trying to sound stern.

“I’ll behave, Mummy,” Ian told her earnestly.

She scooped the child up into a cuddle and planted a number of noisy kisses on his cheek. “I know you will, darling. I can always depend on you to be good. I was talking to THEM.” She indicated John and Sherlock, chuckling, and Ian giggled in delight.

Mary approached her husband and dumped their son into his arms. “I’ve been teacher for weeks now. It’s your turn to ‘do school’ and my turn to play sleuth,” she explained to Sherlock. “Molly has a new friend, and I’m to go and check him out, apparently. I will deduce the heck out of him, and if there’s anything left of him afterwards, give Molly my approval.”

“Eviscerate him, my love,” John encouraged jovially. “Unless he’s a decent chap. In which case, go gently.”

“Evisceration seems most likely. Molly has an alarming taste in men,” Sherlock commented, and was puzzled when his friends looked at each other and burst into uncontrolled laughter. 

“Be sure to show Uncle Sherlock what you’ve been learning in school, Ian,” Mary told her offspring as she pulled on a jacket, still chortling. She went out the front door whilst Ian grasped a handful of Belstaff and pulled the detective in the other direction, towards his bedroom. 

“I maked the earf,” he informed his uncle as they went.

“You made the earth?” Sherlock repeated, bemused. “How tremendously god-like of you.” He removed his coat and let the boy continue dragging it along as he himself stopped in the sitting room and turned to his friend.

“Amazing, John. You and Mary have brought a deity into the world. But I should have thought deity would have better grammar,” he said with a sly grin.

John laughed good-naturedly. “Better watch yourself, mate. He hasn’t sent plagues on anyone yet, but there’s always the first time.”

Soon the creator returned, carefully holding his creation on a jelly roll tray. “It not the whole earf. It’s a . . . a . . . .” Ian looked to his father for the correct word.

“Cutaway model,” John supplied. 

Ian nodded wisely. “That. See!” He picked up the hemispherical clay object and turned it over. “It’s in half.” He pointed to the red ball in the centre. “That the coh. It’s hot. It has lava.”

“Core,” John interpreted. “This child loves lava. Don’t get him started or he’ll never stop talking about it.”

Ian continued, undaunted by pronunciation. “That the cwust,” he indicated the green clay wrapped around the outside of the clay hemisphere. “It means the gwound. Where we walk and stand and stuff. An’ that . . .” Here he hesitated again as he pointed to the brown clay that lay between the red and the green. He looked sideways at his father as if for a hint, then at the fireplace. “Harf?” he guessed tentatively.

John fought back a smile. “Not hearth. Mantle.”

Ian frowned. “Why’s it called for the fi’place, Dad?” he demanded.

“It isn’t, really. It sounds the same, but it’s spelled differently,” John explained patiently. “Sometimes in English, two words have the same sound but mean very different things. Like I,” he tapped his chest and then an eyelid, “have an eye.” 

“Engwish is weird,” Ian declared stoutly, and the two men solemnly agreed. The earth momentarily forgotten, the boy stood lost in thought. “Boring, my bear, and no-clothes-on-bare,” he said at last, nodding to himself. Concept computed. John and Sherlock exchanged awed and very proud glances.

“When can we make a full-camo?” Ian demanded to know. Sherlock gave John a questioning look.

“Volcano,” John said, leading the way back into the kitchen. “Everything’s ready. Let’s get started.” A plastic bottle with the top cut away was soon swathed in quick-drying plaster. Then there was an agonizing wait until it was dry enough to paint.

“This’s for the lava,” Ian explained very seriously, holding up a bottle of red paint. “It’s melted rock. It’s hot. Hot! There’s a hole in the earf and it comes out there. Out the cwust. From the middle of the earf. It’s really hot, though. Like fire, right? Don’t touch it!” The child looked sternly at his uncle as if he strongly suspected Sherlock would do just that if given a chance. Then he added, as an afterthought, “An’ don’t eat it!”

Sherlock smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he promised. “A word to the wise is sufficient.” They ate lunch as they waited, Ian a picture of impatience.

When Mary Watson returned to her flat a few hours later, there was an impressive mountain on her kitchen table. There were also three very happy boys spattered in brown, red, and orange paint with white patches of plaster. She set her bags down and asked, “Who deserves a treat?”

“Me, me!” Ian squealed in excitement, and received a book about lava. He immediately plopped down on the floor and was engrossed in the pictures.

Sherlock received a box of his favourite chocolate biscuits. John received a kiss and a promise for something more later on, while Sherlock and Ian averted their eyes and made noises indicating their great distress at this display of affection.

“I may need help with my sleuthing. Molly’s Tom is . . . disturbing,” Mary murmured to her husband, glancing at her son. “I’ll tell you more later.” Aloud to them all, she asked, “Well, is the ‘full-camo’ going to erupt? I want to see it!”

Ian, abandoning his book, leaped to his feet with joy. “Yay! Lava!”

“All the ingredients are inside but the catalyst,” John told her. “Hydrogen peroxide, a bit of soap, and a lot of red food dye.”

Sherlock was mixing a cup of yeast with a few spoonsful of water. The mixture began to foam. “Are we ready?”

“Goggles on, everyone,” Mary said firmly, picking up a tiny pair and strapping it to her son’s head and then putting on her own. The other two complied, with audible sighs.

Taking up the cup of yeast mixture again, Sherlock poised to pour it into the mouth of their creation. Together, the Watson’s counted, “One . . . two . . . three!”

In went the catalyst, and almost immediately a satisfying eruption of red foam spurted straight up to the ceiling, accompanied by shouts of delight! Ian jumped up and down in excitement, shrieking at the top of his little lungs: “Lava, lava!” The ‘lava’ continued spraying upwards and settling around the plaster model for some seconds, oozing over the plastic-sheet-covered table and onto the plastic tarpaulins covering the floor.

“Again! Again! More lava!” Ian yelled. 

His mother looked critically at the foam dripping down from above their heads. “Not until we figure out how to protect the ceiling, darling,” she said wryly. “I see you found the 30% hydrogen peroxide.”

“We’ll clean it up,” John assured her. “After supper.”

“I’ll order Chinese take-away,” Mary told them cheerfully. “My kitchen is unusable for the time being, since it’s become Magrathea.”

Sherlock hardly dared to ask. “Magrathea?”

“It’s from ‘Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’,” John told him. “It’s the name of the planet where planets are built.”

“A planet where planets . . . .” Sherlock trailed off. He really didn’t want to know.

“It bigger onna inside,” Ian explained soberly. “Like a TARDIS.”

Like a what? “Never mind,” the detective said quickly. It was obvious that Ian’s education consisted of somewhat different subjects than his own had done.

The little family, weary from their educational pursuits, ate in front of the telly. There was a terrific documentary about lava on channel 4. And then there was a rerun about a character called “Doctor Who”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did Mary find Tom disturbing? Read the corresponding story in "The Other Doctor Watson", coming soon.  
> Watch this experiment on YouTube: google Science Bob’s Crazy Foam Experiment. It’s so much fun!


End file.
